Things We Lost in the Fire
by Sabsabbath
Summary: Dean is a troubled teanager who gets into fight after fight until his father decides he's had enough, and he sends Dean away to a camp for troubled teens. There, he bunks with Castiel, a messy-haired mute boy who has burn scars on his back. Dean searches for the truth behind this boy. However, through his investigations he picks up a few conflicting insights about himself.
1. Chapter 1

As a child, Dean begged his parents for companionship, so when John and Mary Winchester brought home his baby brother, he was utterly determined on spending as much time with the kid as possible.

"Can I hold him?" he asked, looking up to his mother as she carefully rocked little Sammy in her arms, being more than careful not to drop him.

"I think you're a little too young, pal," his father chuckled from the rocking chair where he sat, one leg propped up on the other's knee. A sort of pride beamed in his face as he looked to his family, and he couldn't imagine that a man could be more content than he was in that moment.

"No I'm not! I'm already four and a half. Let me hold him. Please?" Dean pleaded and grabbed at his mother's skirt.

"Hey, stop that now—" he warned, and Mary gave John a disapproving stare. "Now don't look at me like that."

"He's your son," she said, placing Sam into his crib and pulling up the bars. The baby cooed and kicked his feet in protest, already missing the sound of his mother's heartbeat.

"He's only _my_ son when you don't want to disappoint him," he looked down to the boy who was struggling to stand on the very tips of his toes, chubby hands grabbing and holding himself up by the bars. Mary dismissed him with a fling of the wrist and walked out of the room, leaving her boys behind. "Your mother sometimes, I swear."

"Dad, come on! I just want to hold him."

"I know you do." John stood up from the chair then came around the crib to his begging son. He placed his hands under his arms and began to lift. "Up we go," and Dean threw his arms into the air, imitating Superman lifting off. When he was all the way up, he hooked one around his father's neck.

"It's not fair that you and Mom get to hold him and not me."

"That's totally fair."

"No it isn't." Dean was never much a whiner, but in that moment he was even surpassing most children his age.

"Okay my boy," John began, walking over to the rocking chair and taking a seat, setting Dean down comfortably in his lap. "You know our family motto, the one I taught you?" He nodded his head and his eyes rolled up to search his brain.

"It's…"

"Go on," he urged him.

"Winchesters look after each other. That's it, right?"

"That's the one. Now Dean, you're too little to hold Sammy; you might drop him."

"I'll never drop him, I promise." Dean held his pinky out for his dad. John couldn't help but to smile and accept the offer. He wrapped his much larger finger around his son's, and Dean had a difficult time hanging on. _But a promise is a promise_, he told himself, so he hung on tight for a long while, and John waited until he let go to say anything.

"I know you'll never dream of letting Sammy get hurt," Dean nodded his head resolutely, "and I know you won't mean to, but sometimes bad things just happen, but eventually you'll be old enough to hold any baby you want."

"But I don't want to hold just any baby, I want to hold Sammy."

"And maybe one day you'll get to, but as of right now the answer is still no." Dean looked down to his father's lap, and tears began to collect in his eyes. "But I'll tell you what," John lifted Dean's chin up and swiped away a rolling tear with his thumb. He couldn't stand to see his little boy upset. "I'll let you sit with him for a while." Dean hugged him from around the neck and was carried happily away. John placed him in the bottom of the crib, not to far or too close to Sam.

Sam looked down at his feet, a curious look turned into a gurgle of joy as he seen his brother, and to John's surprise, Sam he was giggling for the first time in his young life. Dean noticed the significance of the moment too, and shot his head up to grin at his father.

"Did you see that?" he asked, and John was taken aback. Dean was never the type to show his affections so willingly, and the scene was Hallmark worthy. He watched as Dean lifted his hand, imitating an airplane crashing down slowly to tickle Sammy's belly. He was too engrossed in them to notice someone slip into the room, and he almost didn't take the time to look when he felt a pair of hands wrap around his waist. He could see from the crown of her blonde head that it was his wife.

"Now would you look at that," she said as Dean gave Sam a very light kiss on his forehead. "That baby must be something special to make Dean act like that."

"Yeah," he sighed contently, leaning into the kiss she was placing onto his neck, "or maybe all that boy needed was a brother to show his soft side."

"Either way, it's working," she said in a hush tone so she wouldn't disturb the boys. "He has all a kid really needs: a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and someone worth caring about."

"I think we're doing pretty great, you and me. Better than our parents," and that was their basic goal since the beginning. He felt her head nod as her warm breath hit his skin with every exhale. They stood there awhile in silence until they heard the clock in the hall chime nine times.

"Alright Dean, time to hit the hay," Mary announced and glided over to the crib, her white nightgown flowing after her.

"Can't you wait five more minutes?" Dean moaned.

"Don't test my patience, young man." The look in her eyes could have been enough to scare away a grown man, but it didn't faze Dean, and he only stopped tickling his brother when he felt himself being lifted away from him. With his arms spread out, he called to his brother: "Goodnight Sammy!"

As he was being carried out of the room and into his own, he heard Sam staring to wail, followed by the familiar sound of John singing the only song he ever did.

"Lay your weary head to rest," the song became muffled by the wall between his and the nursery, "Don't you cry no more". His mother ducked him into his own bed and under the covers. She left for a second to shut the door, muting the ruckus outside. Before returning to his side, she flicked on his race car night light and plucked a book off his shelf.

"Not tonight," he told her.

"What?"

"I don't you to read to me tonight."

"Alright," she said, hesitantly placing the book back in place. "I guess I'll just leave."

"No, I want a story, just told by you." She blinked at him. It was an odd request from Dean, especially since there wasn't a night that went by without him requesting a book.

"Um, okay." She strode over to his bed and sat down on the very edge of it just like she had always done. "Well, what would like to hear?"

"I had a question, actually," he muttered, playing with a loose string from his blanket. She motioned him to continue. "Where exactly did he come from? Sam, I mean."

"Well," she tried not to trip over her words, feeling flabbergasted and unprepared; she quickly decided to tell him what her parents had told her at his age. "All babies come from heaven."

"And where's that?"

"There," she pointed up.

"The ceiling?"

"No, don't be ridiculous. I meant in the sky. You know, where the angels I told you about live?" Dean nodded his head.

"And what do they do?"

"You mean besides sending babies down? They watch over us." She fidgeted with his blankets, tucking them in all around his body.

"That's creepy," he said, shifting further down into his pillow.

"No, it's supposed to be comforting. When I say 'watch over', I mean they make sure no harm comes to you."

"Why? What's going to happen to me?"

"Nothing, silly. Bad things just happen sometimes, but everyone has a guardian angel that protects them." She rubbed his forehead with the back of her hand, and Dean felt incredibly secure. He wondered if he would even need an angel as long as she was around. It seemed very unnecessary to him, but he figured a little extra protection would always be a good thing. "I want you to remember this, Dean. Angels are always watching over you." He yawned and pulled at his covers, a signal that he was finally tired enough to get a good night's rest. Mary subconsciously imitated her boy and put a balled fist up to her mouth, breathing out onto it and making a noise that Dean thought sounded like a lion's roar, only a lot softer. When she was finished, she made sure to tuck him in tighter, wrapping the covers around his body to form a cocoon. He liked to pretend that sometimes, crawling under his covers and feeling cut away from the world but safe, like someone was just outside a few feet away guarding him.

Mary pressed her lips to his forehead, kissing him and shuffling his long untidy hair before retreating to the doorway. Dean shut his eyes and pulled a stuffed animal close to his chest, hearing the familiar sound of the lights flick off followed by the click of the doorknob's hinge sliding into position, then somewhere in the next room he listened to his mother and father speaking in low tones before they too headed to their own bed. Then there was something else, a strange electric sound, like two wires coming into contact, but he paid no attention and instead let his dreams take over for a while.

He was yanked out shortly after by bolting up in his bed, something he hadn't meant to do. When he tried to open them, he discovered that his eyes were heavy and unfocused as well as his entire body dripping in sweat. He scanned the room squinted eyes to find what woke him, and he suddenly found the suspect. There was a cloud hovering above his head and seeping in through the bottom of his door, and for a second he wondered if he had dreamt that up too. He felt the burn from a room away, and his eyes stung to the touch of it. Nearly seconds after, he heard someone yelling from down the hall, almost like a ringing in his ears. He hopped down from his bed and strode for the door, his bare feet thrumming against the peculiarly cool wood. As he was reaching up to grab the knob, he heard Sammy's piercing scream next door. Getting to him was all that he could think in that moment, because what kind of a brother would he be if he couldn't?

He pushed the door open, and heat automatically blared at him. The smoke flooded his lungs as he inhaled deeply, but it cleared away once he let it all go in a scream for his parents. He turned his head away from it, and seen his mother running down the hallway from out of her room, her nightgown billowing behind her.

She called to him, her face contorted into something Dean had seen from a horror movie, "Go get your father!" she yelled over the sound of the blaze, "He's downstairs. Then get out of here."

"Mommy," his eyebrows arched and tears gathered in his eyes.

"Don't you worry about me, now go!" he turned to run, but was blocked by his father storming up the steps to get to them.

"Mary, the baby!" John grabbed Dean and pushed him behind, sheltering him from the fire.

"I know," she said, her voice trembling, and she plunged in with a determined expression, one that Dean would never forget. He heard his father scream after her before turning around and pushing him away.

"Go outside!" and he took the leap of faith following her heals. Dean knew that he should have listened and ran to safety, but something told him not to. He stood in place, arm thrown over his face as the smoke and flames surged out of the doorway. Before he realized what he was doing, he tasted something metallic in his mouth and brought a hand up to it. He pulled away and saw red. He had bit into his tongue so hard that it was bleeding, but he wiped his hand on his pajamas, pushing the pain to the back of his mind, and he anxiously waited for a familiar face to surface.

A minute passed by in what seemed to take years until he seen any movement. A hand broke free of the flames. It gripped the door way as it emerged, and Dean could see straight away that it was his father. To his relief, he had Sam wrapped up in his other arm, and as soon as John was completely free of danger, he glared Dean down.

"I told you—" He froze, the blood flowing from his face. There was a loud crash of wood followed by a shrill scream from the nursery. John looked to see flames wheeling out of the room, and then back to Dean. In a shaky motion, he cast the baby into his son's small arms. "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now, Dean! Go." And this time, Dean obeyed.

He ran all the way down the steps, gripping Sam as tight and as careful as he seen his mom do, and flew out the front door with such a ferocity that was unrepeatable, and he stood in his grassy front yard, staring up at his home in ruins. From three windows, flames blossomed ten feet high. Only the sound of sirens blaring in the distance brought him back down to earth, and he realized that Sammy was crying.

He moved Sam closer to his chest and sang the only song he knew the lyrics of, softly and mispronounced. "Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done," he stopped to wipe at his eyes with Sammy's blanket. "Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more." He repeated those words the best he could over and over again and pressed his face to his brother.

Without warning, he felt someone pick him up and pull him away from the house seconds before there was a ground-shaking explosion. The sirens were a few feet away then, and when his feet were finally on the earth once more, he opened his eyes. He found himself looking up to John, hopeful that his mother would appear behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist just like she always did. After a while of that not happening, Dean opened his mouth, ready to ask a question no child ever should, but his father saved him the trouble by slowly shaking his head.

Dean's bottom lip began to quiver, and he was hit with a wave of nausea. A paramedic had rushed over and grabbed Sam from out of his arms, and Dean instinctively strained to grasp for his brother. Another paramedic came from behind and lifted him by his stomach, and while this was happening he couldn't help but to wonder something.  
Where was his guardian angel?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Dean trudged his way through the empty halls, hand balled around a rag he held firmly to his nose. Tiny trickles of blood, without his knowledge, hit the floor like rain drops as he passed room after room until he came to his destination. He knocked twice, and waited for the nurse to open the door. When she did, her face dropped as she looked him head to toe.

"Again, Winchester?" she sighed, backing up and holding an arm out, allowing him to enter her office.

"It wasn't my fault," Dean told her while sulking over to the table he frequented.

"It never is," she mocked, but He ignored her comment and instead effortlessly lifted himself onto the table, his feet dangling slightly above the ground. He pulled the rag from his nose, examining all that had poured into it.

She shut the door before turning around. Dean watched her walk over to the cabinet and stand on her toes, pulling down a brown bottle and cotton swabs. Dean mentally flinched.

"You know," she began, "I've been through an entire bottle of this in the past month."

"Missouri—"

She cut him off, "I'm going to have to start ordering extra, just for you."

Dean frowned. "If you would just do something about Zachariah, I wouldn't be down here so often."

"That's something to bring up to the principal, sweetie, not the school nurse."

"I've tried to, Missouri. You're the only one who believes me."

She stepped over to the table and placed the bag of swabs down next to him before cautiously uncapping the bottle. "Well it's not like you're doing this to yourself." She took a swab and doused it in the liquid from the bottle, and Dean could feel the burn before it even made contact with his skin. She swiped away the blood from around the corners of his nose, and then to a cut that was made on his cheekbone. "What did this boy even do to you this time?"

"You mean besides breaking my face?" She nodded and he dropped his voice. "He said something." Crossing his arms, Missouri finished flushing out the cut, and began examining Dean's eye. She clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"He gave you a nice shiner, boy. That 'something' must have been a real doozy for you to think you can take down a linebacker."

Dean knew from the second Zachariah's fist made contact with his skin that he was going to have one hell of a black eye. "It was," he confessed.

"What was it, if you don't mind me asking?" She swabbed away at his bloody nose, which had only stopped bleeding moments ago.

"He insulted me and my brother."

"Strange how I don't see Sam down here for anything other than colds."

"That's because the kid doesn't know how to speak up," Dean said, shifting his head to the side so that Missouri could get to the next spot. He couldn't help but stare at the door and notice a bloody handprint on the knob. He hesitantly glanced down to the floor and seen the trail of blood he left.

"Well would you prefer him to be in your shoes?" She asked, turning around to dispose the swabs. She grabbed a box of Kleenex in their absence and offered it to Dean. He took note of the Hello Kitty pattern and instantly smirked.

"That's a real cute tissue box you got there," he said, gratefully taking two. She laughed, putting the box back onto her counter. "Aw hell," Dean said, motioning to the messy floor, "I'm real sorry about that." He blew his nose, empting it of the excess blood and reached across the table once he was done to toss it into the garbage can.

She dismissively shook her head at him. "Don't you worry about that. The janitor's neurotic; he'll be back to clean in here in no time," they exchanged smiles and shared in an awkward silence together until she coughed, reaching out a hand to adjust Dean's jacket collar. "You should probably go home and rest that eye. I suppose I could write you up a few excused absent slips."

"You think you can write one up for Sammy, since I'm his only ride home for the day and all." Dean knew he was pushing his luck, but he seen the way Missouri looked at him. She looked at him like every other adult did, as the poor motherless child who never had any correct discipline. He almost felt bad for taking advantage of her like that, he really did.

She hesitated, thinking hard about what that could mean for her. She weighed it out in her head until he won her over. "Sure," she surrendered. "Just make sure he's back in school tomorrow, and don't make this a reoccurring thing, okay Winchester?"

Dean leaped off the table and kissed her on the cheek, "Oh Missouri you're the best. Has anyone ever told you that before?" She sighed again, attempting yet failing to hide away a smirk. Pulling a pen out of the bun on top of her head, she turned around and opened one of her drawers.

"Mhmmm," she hummed and drew out a yellow pad from her drawer. He watched her glide the pen across the paper before she handed it to him in one quick swipe.

As he started to leave, he halted in his track a few feet from the door. "Oh, one more thing?" he began, "can you check what classroom Sammy's in?"

"What would you do without me?" she asked him, walking away and to her computer. She sat down in her leather chair and beat her fingers at the keyboard. "He's in room 304."

"Thank you!" Dean called from the hallway before closing the door. As he rushed to Sam, he noticed his face throbbing, and he knew that it wouldn't be long until he needed to subdue the pain by borrowing aspirin from his father's stash.

With the yellow slip between his fingers, he came to the third floor and began to count the room numbers off out loud. When he got to the one he was told, he knocked on the door and helped himself in. The teacher, a bearded but balding man, turned around to face him. He was holding a piece of chalk and peering over his spectacles at Dean.

Dean nervously clasped his hands together in front of him. "I'm looking for Sam," he informed the teacher, motioning to the class as he seen his brother leaning forward in the front row, straining to see him. Dean walked forward, handing Sam's teacher the yellow slip. He grabbed it, never taking eyes off of Dean's face.

"What did you do, get into a flight with a lawn mower?" The man asked, looking down to the slip and deciding it was fit enough before waving Sam over. Sam scrambled to get his books together and raced to the front to stand at his brother's side.

"You got me sir, that's exactly what happened," the class exploded to life with a laugh, and Dean looked out to them, spotting out two preteen girls in the front who were whispering to each other whilst staring directly at him. He winked, causing them to erupt in a fit of giggles. Feeling pleased with himself, he turned to see Sam's reaction, but was rejected with an eye roll.

The teacher handed the pass back to Dean, and he pocketed it. "If I were you, I'd be careful about who I was sassing."

Dean couldn't resist. "If you were me, your head would be less shiny." He grabbed Sam by his shoulder and led him out, leaving the stunned teacher in his place.

"Excuse me young man, what's your name?"

Dean turned around and walked slowly backwards. "I don't know, everything has been so cloudy since the lawn mower accident," he flashed a fake, cheesy smile before turning back around and opening the door. By then, Sam's entire class was bent over with laughter.

"Sam, who's this boy?" Sam, feeling awkward, shrugged in response and followed his brother out of the door without further contact with his teacher. When the brothers were safely in the hallway, they fled down the stairs, skipping every other one. Without even hesitating, they pushed the double-doors open at the same time and gladly raced for the impala.

When they had arrived to it, Sam got a good look at Dean's eye and frowned. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to say anything back," Sam said between pants.

"Zachariah had it coming."

"Apparently so did your face," he retorted with a grin as he pulled the door open and slid into his seat. Dean shortly joined him.

"Oh hardy har har," he mocked, twisting the keys and bringing the engine to life.

"You know, my teacher is going to give me hell when I go back."

"Just tell him my name, and he'll leave you alone."

"And what? Get you into more trouble?" Sam yelled, but Dean shrugged it off and kept his eyes on the road. Sam grunted and fell back into his seat, defeated. "Dad's going to kill you when he sees your face."

"You mean after he gets home from killing the imaginary monsters under little kid's beds? Face it Sammy, Dad is off his rocker. He won't even give my black eye a second thought."

"If you say so." Dean decided he had enough of the conversation and turned the stereo up, canceling out any of Sam's afterthoughts.

When they pulled into a parking space, Sam bolted from the car faster than Dean could get a word out. Dean watched him flee up the steps of their apartment building and disappear inside with not as much as one glance back to the impala. He waited for the song to finish before finally unbuckling his seatbelt and following Sam into the building, being cautious not to step on the decaying parts of the stairway which were visible by the darkened color and splinters sticking skyward from it.

When he entered the cramped space they were renting for the time being, he noticed that their bedroom door was closed, which only meant one thing: Sam was finally a hormonal teenager. Dean was expecting it for a few years by then, but it still didn't make the situation any more pleasant. He stuffed down the thought with a scowl as he tossed his book bag down to the ground and reached for the television remote, clicking it on for a few hours of mindless crap-television. They couldn't afford cable, and even if they could Dean knew they wouldn't be staying long enough for it to be worth the pain of getting everything connected only to pull out the wires in a few months' time. So he sat in the beaten arm chair, mouth ajar and face throbbing until his stomach begged for company.

Dean stood in the kitchen with an assortment of takeout menus sprawled on the counter. Thumbing through a separate handful of them, he called out loud enough to frighten the neighbors. "Sammy!"

From deep in the next room, Dean heard his brother demand back. "What?"

He waited.

"What do you want?"

No reply from Dean other than the smile that pulled on his lips. It only increased as he heard a loud thud followed by multiple footsteps. The door swung open at full force and ricocheted off the kitchen wall, displaying a very disgruntled young brother.

"What," he began, his bangs dangling in his face, "do you want?"

"Lots of things," he stared at the mess on top of Sam's head. "For starters, I want you to get a haircut. You're starting to look like Rob Zombie. And I need to know what kind of greasy food you're craving."

"I'm not hungry," Sam explained, leaning forward in the door way with both hands on either side to ensure he wouldn't face-plant.

"You're going to be later, and I'm hungry now. So what will it be, Mandarin Kitchen, Taco Erendira, or Pizza Hut?"

"Why don't you just wait for Dad to get home then you can ask him if you're so indecisive?"

"We'll starve if we wait, and besides, he'll probably be too plastered to eat anyway."

"I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that," he mumbled and attempted to flee back into the room, but was stopped when Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around so he would have no choice but to face him.

"What's gotten into you?" Dean asked, searching his face for any kind of answer.

Sam looked to the floor instead. "Nothing," he muttered.

"Then look at me and try again." Sam fidgeted under Dean's grasp and was quickly released. He opened his mouth, but abandoned what he was prepared to say. Instead, Dean could clearly see he was trying to develop an excuse.

Sam sighed heavily as the muscles in his face relaxed, and Dean could tell that he just broke through whatever was holding him back. "I heard Dad talking on the phone to someone about you," he spit out.

Dean blinked. "What about me?""

Sam bit his lip and thought about how to phrase it. "Well," he began, "he told the person all about you, like your fight history in school and stuff."

"Huh, that's not strange at all," Dean dismissed his brother and twisted back around to the menus, plucking one off the counter and holding it up to Sam's face. "You in the mood for Tacos?"

Sam swatted it away, causing it float to the ground and land open. Dean stared at it in awe before looking back to him. "You're better at this wrathful teenager thing than I ever was."

"No, you don't understand. When Dad hung up, he went out without his phone and I checked to see who he was talking to, and it was some number I didn't recognize. I called back on private and guess who picked up?"

"I don't know, Rob Zombie?"

"Dean, it was Camp Oasis."

"What the hell is that?" Sam rubbed at his brow with his index finger, and Dean felt his stomach turn cold. "Is it really that bad?" Sam nodded.

"I looked it up," he stated slowly before throwing the punch, "and I found out it's a correction camp for troubled teens."

"You're shitting me." Sam shook his head and Dean gripped the counter behind him, "Dad wouldn't send me there," he said hesitantly, not completely believing himself.

"He sounded pretty serious," Sam plopped down in one of the chairs and rested his head sideways on the table so he could have a full view of Dean. "Plus he said that if you got into one more fight that would be it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean asked, joining him across the table.

"I was going to, but I just found out what the place was today, and I didn't think that you were going to get your face pounded in so quickly." Dean groaned and dropped his head forward and shook his hands through his hair so viciously that Sam wondered if he was going to complain about soreness later.

"I can't believe it, a father that would do that to his own son."

Sam's lips parted to offer comfort to his brother, but the sound of the front door unlocking misplaced his words. Sam was surprised when he didn't see Dean rise and leave the room. "What are you doing? Get out of here," he whispered, signaling with a few flaps of his wrist to their room.

"What's the point?" he asked flatly. "The school is only going to call him sooner or later." Sam did not insist, partly because he realized his brother was right, but mainly because John had stepped through the door seconds later.

He announced his presence by the familiar thud of his duffle bag dropping to the already dangerously decayed floor. It was an unchanged habit of their father. Even when they were warned as children to never go near the duffle, he always left it by the doorway. For safe keeping he told them, just in case they had to flee from the hotel rooms or the rotted apartments. Just in case of a fire.

Even though that made logical sense to Sam, Dean couldn't help but think of it as a trap, like the ones that are set up for a rat. A sort of come on, I dare you. John denied the accusations of course, but Dean always thought of it as a test. However, he would be lying if he said he never considered letting the temptation win.

John trudged to the kitchen, his heavy boots pounding the floor every step of the way. Dean kept his head lowered as his father yanked the fridge door open and freed an extensive sigh from his lungs.

"No dinner," John murmured, "again."

Dean could practically hear the vein pop out of his forehead and he glanced up to Sam without moving. Sam shifted uncomfortably. "We were just discussing dinner," Sam informed him, obvious anxiety coating his voice.

"What's there to discuss? One fatty-food joint is no different from another." To Dean's complete surprise, John didn't sound the least bit intoxicated. He even saw Sam's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but they swiftly fell back down into place as he heard the clatter of glass against glass. He watched his father from the corner of his eye pull out a beer from one of the shelves before twisting the cap off and taking a long, fulfilling swig.

"Did you catch any today, Dad?" Sam asked, not out of curiousity but as a time-buyer.

"Almost," John cleared his throat with a grunt. "The bastard got away, but I'll be after him again tomorrow. But I think you guys should replenish the holy water in your room just to be on the safe side."

Sam stiffened when he began walking over to the empty chair besides him, but eased as John suddenly stopped a few feet away and bowed down to seize something off the bottom of his boot. Upon ascension, they could see that it was the menu that they abandoned there.

John's eyebrow's narrowed as he squinted. His face abruptly lit up and he practically flew to the table, sitting across from Dean and next to Sam. "Tacos," he breathed. "Now that's a good idea." He looked to Dean for a second before returning his gaze to the menu. His expression turned rigid as he processed what he seen and slowly peeked back up to his son. He studied Dean for a long time until Sam had enough.

"Dad, it's not what you think," Sam spoke, glancing over to Dean and then back to John. John made a movement as if he was going to lean back in his chair, but instead he stood up quickly, nearly knocking the chair to the ground.

"It's exactly what I think," John assured between gritted teeth. He placed both of his palms onto his forehead and pulled on his hair.

"You don't understand. This boy, he said something to me —" Sam tried to get it out, but John wasn't willing to let the last word leave his lips.

"Go to your room, Sam," he stared at his father blankly. "Don't you make me say it again." Sam looked to Dean for guidance, and Dean offered him a suggestion: he nodded his head once in the direction of their room. Sam huffed and crossed his arms in response, hesitating a moment before sauntering away. Dean watched him go and flinched when he violently slammed the door.

Dean swallowed and realized his throat felt like sandpaper. He eyed the sink and made his move for a cup.

"I can't allow this anymore," John stated, leaning his back against the counter opposite from Dean. Even though Dean couldn't remember a moment when he seen an anger fierce enough to cause his father to charge at his son, he couldn't help but feel thankful for the table sandwiched between them. John took another swig from the beer and swallowed it in a few gulps. He kept the bottle in his hand as he turned it in circles, pretending to study every centimeter. "You're getting out of hand," Dean turned away and twisted the knob of the sink, letting the water overflow, basking in the coolness against his skin. He shut the water off and brought the cup to his lips, keeping watch on his father while he drank.

"This is difficult for me to do," John slurred and disposed of his empty bottle and helped himself to another before plunking back into the chair.

"Then don't do it," he shrugged

"You know I can't do that. I told you, one more fight and that would be it."

"So what are you going to do?" Dean asked, playing it off like he didn't already know. "You going to kick me out in front of Sammy so I can never see him again?" Dean swallowed the next gulp of water hard and pushed the thought where the light couldn't touch it.

"Oh stop being dramatic; you know I wouldn't do that. I've made arrangements." John's eyes hit the roof of their sockets and he slumped back into his chair. Dean could tell he was racking his brain for a mollifying way to put it. "Arrangement for _treatment_," he offered.

"The only one who needs _that _around here is you," Dean added curtly. John's eyes dropped down to the now empty bottle in his hand. A carnivorous wave of guilt flooded visibly onto John's face, and he stared in mortification at the bottle like it was the most revolting thing he has seen in all his years of hunting.

Then suddenly, as if a switch was flicked by some being inside his father's head, John looked up to Dean with the fierceness he couldn't remember seeing before, and Dean realized exactly why he was thankful a table blocked him.

"You've got one day to pack," John roared and Dean subconsciously backed up, hitting his back against the counter.

"Come on Dad," he whimpered and held his hands out in front of him. "No more fights, I promise."

"On Thursday, you will leave this house and not come back until the program is over."

"But what about school?"

"Don't pretend like you suddenly care about that," he growled.

"Dad…"

"Go to bed. I have some phone calls to make." Dean faltered a moment and stared vacantly at his father, his lips parted. John decided he was taking too long. "Now!" he exploded, hitting the bottle against the table and shattering it into pieces that delved into his hand.

It only took a few seconds for John to realize what he did, and he quickly shot his other hand up to hold his wrist, steading the shaking. Dean wanted to help, he wanted to get him a washcloth and bandage but as soon as he moved an inch to the medicine cabinet, his father locked eyes on him and something in them told Dean to run.

Dean busted into their bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Grateful to be away from the chaos, he closed his eyes and collapsed against the wall. He wondering if he breathed at all while talking to his father, because he found himself gasping for air, but before he could get enough, he felt a pair of arms drawing him into a hug.

"Sammy," he inhaled contently and rested his face in the crook of his neck. The thought of missing out on this made him feel sick, and he promised himself was going to try everything possible to get out of it.


End file.
